Page 11 of The Quiet
He was a handsome man with a face full of dimples that made his smile seem huge and bright, a scar etching its way down the side of his eye and collapsing it so slightly as to make his expressions seem one-sided.
“Hey! What’s your name?” he asked, his voice deep and powerful.
Baker buried her head back down into the mane of the horse, earning a laugh from the group.
“Von, you’re scaring her,” Bird laughed from beside him, the depth of her laugh so full that it instantly lightened the mood.
The rider behind Baker leaned over and offered Baker an apple from her saddle bag. Baker stared up at a dark woman with a strong nose and deeply set, coal eyes. A thick, ebony braid cascaded down her shoulder and was tucked loosely into her jacket, flashes of yellow from an interwoven string of beads poked through her hair.
Baker glanced down at the apple clasped in the woman’s nimble fingers. Some fingers were missing, and somehow that made Baker feel closer to her, reminded of the cripples’ cottage. The woman drew a knife from her belt and cut the apple into pieces, feeding Baker one after the other.
“You’re a magician, Khalid, I tell you,” Bird said, Baker realizing they’d all been watching the interaction with interest.
“She’ll speak when she wants to. She’s seen a lot,” Khalid replied as they stopped the horses near the edge of a mountain path. Dismounting, they all made the trek up the winding incline. Several bare-chested runners passed them on their way up.
Baker couldn’t help but stare at the glimmering, muscled bodies as they jostled by. She knew people had muscles, but never so many. It looked as if someone had poured rocks into their skin, and on the same thought, Baker inspected the group around her,pounding the earth and pushing forward like boulder people with all of their gear and bags. They were a different race made of rocks, she concluded, so it came to no surprise that they seemed to be living in the mountains.
This world was vast and full of spirits, monsters and stone people. She’d only just explored the fringes of it. She was still unsure if she should feel safe, staring and wandering like a little ghost amongst it all.
Everyone inside the vast network of caves at the top of the path was dressed similarly, in tight shirts with layers of jackets rolled down off their bodies and around their waists and heavy pants. Gigantic, plated boots rested around the cave and it smelled like sweat and smoke. Several people were polishing knives in the corner, refilling canisters with oil, and smoking as they did it.
Von sauntered ahead as they entered, cupping his hands around his mouth as he shouted, “Team Clear North, returned! One kill!”
The entire group turned, and collectively they shouted, “The lamb speaks!”
“One save!” Von called.
“One more!” they shouted back, a stick of coal flying across the room and tottering down near Von’s feet.
He picked it up and gestured back to Baker, “Until you give us a name, I’ll call you kiddo,” he said, gesturing to her with the coal before walking over to a massive wall on which Baker now noticed thousands of names had been written. They spanned across the breadth of the cavern, filling every nook and cranny.
Their group hunkered down in a circle in the center of the room and started removing their gear. The masks were like large seashells and she found herself reaching for one as if it might not be real.
The person next to her, owner of the mask and one of the front riders of their team, watched as she picked it up. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, observing as her fingers traced over the lines.
“My name is Nate,” he said as she stared at the mask, giving her time to inspect it before he added, “Strike see our emotions when they look into our eyes.”
Baker noticed his bright blue eyes for the first time and found herself searching as if she too might see emotions there.
“Those masks mimic what emotions look like to them. Apparently, that’s happiness. Different patterns mean different emotions. The masks mesmerize the younger ones. They haven’t learned to control their hunger yet and it works well for us.”
Everyone observed her reaction as Nate explained, and Baker looked at all of their faces one by one, noticing Von behind them as he sunk down into a group lounging at the edge of the cave. Their shoulders nestled together, one arm looped around his shoulder to accept him into the bodies as someone else’s hand settled comfortably down his shirt. Von kissed the woman’s arm on his chest with a smile before another arm offered him something to drink and without checking to see who it had come from, he drank it.
Watching these people exchanging space, breath, and drinks, it was as if they weren’t people at all, but one interconnected tangle of vines. The three people she now sat with, part of the groupshe realized had killed her forest spirit, seemed to be waiting for some kind of response. Baker wasn’t sure at first if she should stay or run, her emotions still boxed in a world far from her.
“Young lady,” Nate said. “Do you know who we are?”
Baker inspected every detail of their bodies before searching the room. She noticed their arms, tattoos peering past their sleeves.
“We’re the Riders of Saint East. The ROSE, you’ll hear us called,” Nate said, drawing her attention back to him. “We are the last fighting force still willing to resist the Strike.”
Valentine had mentioned them. He claimed that the ROSE had once been heroes, and were branded as a cult when the Strike took power. He said they’d fought valiantly to their last survivor. He said they were all dead.
Baker looked down at the mask, and pulled it close to her chest, once a symbol of terror, it became one of hope. The events in the forest clicked into place with a delayed sense of fear and relief.
She’d bring it back to Valentine as proof that they were alive.
Maybe they could get the pieces of Valentine’s heart back from the Strike, the pieces he claimed they’d stolen. Maybe then, he’d be himself again.
